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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690188">you won't commit a crime (bigger than giving me up)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/botanyclub/pseuds/botanyclub'>botanyclub</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Anne with an E (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Mob, F/M, semi-graphic depictions of violence, this isn't a fic but a bunch of vibes stacked on top of each other under a trench coat, will update tags as necessary</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:20:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>990</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690188</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/botanyclub/pseuds/botanyclub</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gilbert Blythe is the attending physician for one of the biggest crime syndicates in North America. Anne is just the girl who moves in next door.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>you won't commit a crime (bigger than giving me up)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In that liminal space between dark and early morning, at 3:56 AM when all is quiet and even crime has retired, gun safeties engaged and slipped underneath pillows while hookers count tips and catalogue fresh bruises on skin, Gilbert steps out of the car and onto the cracked sidewalk leading home.</p><p>Out of habit, he looks skywards in the hopes of seeing stars, and might even settle for the passing blink of a plane because at least then, he could <em>pretend</em>. But Gilbert stares and a black chasm stares back, bleak and barren save for a tiny sliver of moon.</p><p>“Goodnight, Dr. Blythe,” the chauffeur says before driving away, rounding the corner, and disappearing into the night. He takes with him the sound of engine rumbles and crunching gravel underwheel, until there’s nothing left but silence and a heartbeat Gilbert barely acknowledges as his own. The thrumming is too hollow for ears used to listening through a stethoscope, or earlier, pressed against a chest cavity as Archie breathes one last, rattling breath.</p><p>A boy of seventeen, Archie was pulled straight off the streets and into the fold of an underground world one only hears about in whispers. He didn’t know anything outside of the cycle of violence and drugs that brought him right to Harmon Andrew’s door, another foot soldier in the war against Charlie and the rest of the Sloanes.</p><p>Gilbert tries his best to never learn names or personalize anyone’s death, and becomes quite proficient in the art of detachment, except he was there the day Archie showed up, scuffed converse shoes and a leather suitcase full of crack. There is a quiet warble in his voice when he introduces himself, buoyed with false confidence despite the spots on his chin belying his youth. Gilbert finishes administering the rest of Harmon’s meds before making his retreat out the room, noting new and old faces, while leaving the door open just a crack.</p><p>
  <em>“Donnie’s got men on 65th—”</em>
</p><p>He strains to glean any intel he can bring back to Bash, and pieces together enough words to gather that they’re talking about a push into Casa Loma. But one blue eye appears very suddenly in the gap, guileless when observing Gilbert still lingering outside. He fiddles with his medical bag as a half-baked excuse and Archie nods in deference, pulling the door closed all the way. He counts to ten with bated breath and knows, when he isn’t summarily summoned, that Archie has thought nothing of his presence after all.</p><p>Taking on the mantle as everyone’s in-house physician, even if he plays no role in either dealings or acquisitions, affords Gilbert a certain level of respect. A sense of anonymity while hiding in plain sight.</p><p>All things considered, he is probably the RCMP’s best-placed mole.</p><p>But if he’s even marginally worried about Archie blowing his cover, it is entirely for naught, because seven days later, the boy winds up dead. Two gunshot wounds and deposited, as a warning, atop Billy’s vintage red Corvette; head-first through the window, with feet and converse dangling limp over the side.</p><p>“<em>Sloane</em>,” he remembers Billy uttering with bitter contempt in his tone. Pointy alligator boots make sharp contact with the tires, frustration born from the destruction of his favorite joyride rather than the loss of another life.</p><p>Everyone is replaceable and all humans are the same.</p><p>“Just cartilage and bone, with ten fingers and toes. Four chambers to pump and two lungs to breath.”</p><p>
  <em>Bullet holes crawling through muscle and meat. Exit wounds spaced sixteen centimeters apart. </em>
</p><p>Gilbert blinks to clear the image, eyes stinging from sleep deprivation and the acute urge to cry, but he’s burned the habit of sympathy from his repertoire, while the sight of Archie’s mangled body remains.</p><p>
  <em>Time of death: 2:15 AM</em>
</p><p>He makes his listless way inside.</p><p>Nondescript with a somewhat permanent air of rot, the apartment complex is nestled in between a laundromat and bodega boarded up three-panels thick. Stepping through the front doors, there is no opulence to be found in its interior as well; the once plush carpeting matted down from years of use and abuse, and long strips of wallpaper curling up like yellow parchment, water-damaged and mottled and hanging on despite all reason.</p><p>At the very least, the singular elevator at the far end of the hall is operational, although it starts and stops so suddenly that if Gilbert doesn’t brace himself accordingly, he’s liable to flung in the other direction.</p><p>Tired, he presses a button so faded he can no longer make out the number, but logically occupying the space where the third floor button would lie, and scrubs a hand over his face; can smell the blood and antiseptic settled somewhere in the grooves.</p><p>“I look like hell,” Gilbert notes, staring at his reflection in the elevator door, and leaning in closer to inspect the darkening bags beneath his eyes. The bruises stand out against his swallowing skin as the overhead lighting renders him the color of curdled cream. He should also stop buying designer if it always ends up crumpled and blood-stained in short order.</p><p>The silver doors glide open and Gilbert moves to climb out, and nearly bowls over a redhead who is equally anxious to get in.</p><p>“Sorry,” he mumbles, at the same time she chirps, “Sorry!” as well.</p><p>“I just wasn’t expecting anyone coming home at this time.”</p><p>“I’m a doctor,” he explains, and tries to hide the drying blots on his shirt.</p><p>“I’m a baker,” she replies, and motions to the apron she’s preemptively put on.</p><p>There is a moment of silence between them where he’s rooted in place, until the doors glide closed and Gilbert finds his voice once again.</p><p>“Good morning to you then.”</p><p>She laughs. “And a good night to you, too!”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Later, when Gilbert finally goes to bed, his last conscious thought is that he might’ve liked to learn her name.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This isn’t so much a fic as it will be a series of short vignettes taking place in the same universe. Crime!AU’s are very much outside of my comfort zone, so this is my attempt to practice and get better about branching out with my writing, while also keeping people as in character as possible. Updates will either come fast and furious or very sporadically, there is no in between. Either way, I hope you all enjoy and stick along for the ride :)</p>
<p>title from NIKI’s “Dancing With The Devil” bc it CRANKS</p>
<p>you can find me on twitter/tumblr @bbotanyclub for moodboards and general tomfoolery</p></blockquote></div></div>
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